Devour
by irukandji
Summary: [Trigger Warning: binge/purge episodes] Savagely, the depression, anxiety, and hopelessness that bulimia was responsible for creating only caused him to become increasingly addicted and ill, and the more addicted and ill he became, the more fearful he became of the solutions he yearned for.


**Content Warning: Graphic descriptions of binge/purge episodes & mild suicidal idealization. **

[USA] National Eating Disorders Association: 1-800-931-2237  
[Canada] NEDIC Helpline: 1-866-663-4220  
[UK] Eating Disorder Association Youth Helpline: 011-44-8456-347650  
[Ireland] Local Helpline: 1890 200 444  
[Australia] Eating Disorders Victoria Help Line: 1300 550 236  
More resources available on my profile.**  
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Porcelain dishes glimmered on his bedroom floor and proudly imitated a marvelous, grand feast. From their thrones, delectable foods cast plumes of stream into the air and enticed him with their bewitching aromas. _"__Lukas,"_ they crooned and beckoned him forward, _"__dine with us, won't you? You are so very hungry, after all."_

Ice crystals sparkled on the container of creamy chocolate-peanut-butter-cup ice cream they adorned. Oil glistened on golden corn muffins, promising to enchant him with moist fluffy crumbles. Pasta overflowed from a ginormous bowl and swam in an elixir of warm butter and salty cheese. Thickset cookies saluted him with bodies misshapen from fudge chunks, and slender chicken tenders towered atop a plate, fully adorned in crispy flakes and freckled with spices.

Gooey, stringy white and golden cheese oozed over the edges of doughy pizza foundations, and amber maple syrup dribbled from a mountain of hot, fluffy blueberry pancakes. Red, orange, and purple fruit juices burned like neon lights in shiny glasses. Fizzy soda pop sparkled and bubbled like a mystic lagoon of liquid sugar – cola, lemon-lime, cream, strawberry, grape, ginger, and cherry galore!

He trembled with anticipation like the great King of Gluttony at the alluring display; an eager wad of saliva slunk down his throat, and his inhibition dissipated as he transformed into a voracious beast. With abhorrent fervor he bore into his feast, shaking, possessed, and consumed with desire. Forks mangled the delicious pancakes and savory pasta, and spoons demolished the lush chocolate-peanut-butter-cup ice cream. His greasy fingertips clawed apart the corn muffins and shoveled the pizza and cookies past his lips with unsightly haste.

His paling teeth demolished each item with slovenly chomps and chews that disgusted the ghosts who stared from inside the walls. Food caked his skin like cheap, grisly makeup paint; unlucky crumbs became imprisoned beneath his chipped fingernails; and his lips became as slimy as the unwashed hair atop his head. He guzzled the sweet drinks from their cups and their cans, wincing as the liquid scorched past his damaged teeth and down his throat. Overwhelmed and overworked, the taste buds on his tongue cringed and suffocated beneath the great influx of food; eventually, he was barely able to taste.

"_No more __– I cannot take this," _his stomach suddenly shrieked though he had barely consumed a small portion of the feast. His mind erupted in disunion: such a monstrous amount of food was surely despicable, yet his appetite had not experienced such satisfaction in days. His body beseeched him to rest and appreciate the wonderful influx of nutrients and energy, but his malicious mind pressed him to purge his body of the sickening substance. Regrettably, his mind was always victorious, and he knelt before the plastic grocery bags stationed at his bedside.

He hesitated, dreading the agony that was to come, but surely it could not outweigh the pain of a fully digested binge. Three grotesque appendages kissed the flesh of his throat; repulsed by their presence, his body displayed its displeasure with a flood of acidic regret. It was a morbid form of retribution and ultimately utterly worthless, but he was convinced it was critical to his sanity.

Nausea convulsed through his body, bearing with it waves of blindness, pungent odors, acrid flavors, spells of dizziness, and flashes of pain. Vomit was the memoir of illness and drunkenness and the premonition of pregnancy and death. Vomit was the materialization of anguish and rejection. Vomit was both the manifestation of his misery and the cause of his misery. He reveled in it, he despised it, he desired it, and he coveted it.

Ceaselessly, he repeated the wretched cycle: gorge and disgorge; bask in the sensations of taste and food and bask in the sensations of purging and addiction. Four in the afternoon turned to five and six in the evening, then seven, eight, nine, ten, and eleven at night. Finally, midnight announced the birth of a new day, and he could continue to endure the cycle no longer.

As he lay on the floor with swollen cheeks and aching muscles, he couldn't help but spite his horrible 'little game.' Of course, to think of this illness as a game was despicable, but it was undoubtedly much easier to entertain the notion of a game than the notion of a deadly sickness. With ease he trivialized it, for despite the torment he suffered each day, he truly did not comprehend the full velocity of his disorder. Electrolyte imbalances, esophageal tears, rotten teeth, stomach ruptures, anemia – it all sounded like little more than the ridiculous, melodramatic gossip of a bored nurse.

But bulimia was malignant and hungry to devour its victims. Bulimia scraped the enamel from his sore teeth and shaved away his inflamed gums, anticipating the day his discoloring 'pearly-whites' would shatter. Bulimia poisoned his saliva and slithered into his stomach where it waltzed and made him hunger and ache. Bulimia desiccated the water of his body, lounged on his muscles, and caused him to quiver and suffer. Bulimia intoxicated his bloodstream like a malevolent drug.

Bulimia had taught him to experience the world in only two categories: what incited fear and what mocked him. With fear he encountered people, for humans appeared to constantly be dining, taunting him with scents and images of delectable foods. He had become terrified of them as they too often possessed and created the substance that harrowed him. Cruelly, the entire world seemed to mock him with their chatter and inquiries: _"__Have you gained weight?" "I just made cake – want some?" "Let's go out to dinner!" "Latest Celebrity News: Ten Actresses with Eating Disorders? We've got the GOSSIP!" "You'll get fat if you keep buying all that junk!__" "Just don't start throwing up, LOL." "Someone has a big appetite." "Are you alri__ght? You've been looking sick."_ The lens through which he now viewed life seemed only to reveal an inferno.

Bulimia disguised itself as his only remaining hope; he knew it was false, but he was desperate for relief and exhausted of the energy any healthy coping skill required. Occasionally, he considered reaching out to a doctor or loved one for help. Most of the time, he fantasized about suicide. He did not genuinely wish to kill himself, but continuing to endure this disorder was unfathomable. Savagely, the depression, anxiety, and hopelessness that bulimia was responsible for creating only caused him to become increasingly addicted and ill, and the more addicted and ill he became, the more fearful he became of the solutions he yearned for.

Vomit had begun to overflow from the plastic bag and splatter his bedroom carpet so he had been required to gravitate to the bathroom for his final purge. Hypnotized, he watched the sickly peach fluid swirl in the toilet like a film noir version of koi fish as cold post-purge anxiety settled in his stomach and replaced the food he had disposed of.

"_You are weak."_ He closed his eyes and tried to breath. _"__You failed your classes this year; you didn't even take the testing necessary for your college applications. You'll never succeed – if you even graduate high school."_ No, he could remedy it. _"__You're incompetent. You're almost seventeen, and you can't even eat your food properly."_ That was indisputable. _"__You don't even have the courage to seek help. You're self-indulgent. You chose this." _Please, please be quiet. _"__You're so fucking stupid. You're so fucking worthless."_ He was so fucking stupid. He was so fucking worthless.

He could not withstand to continue listening to his thoughts; they were the truth, and the truth made him miserable. He wanted to collapse, shriek, and sob away his despair, but dullness and exhaustion prevented him from gathering the stamina to do so. He attempted to focus on his breathing and wish away the horrible truths. The oxygen entering his body felt foreign, and his chest and his stomach crawled with jittery bugs. He could not relax.

His fingertips began to twitch with the need for more food and more purging. The entire spectrum of his emotions inevitably lead to bulimia; they were too intense and too manic to be tolerated. He required bulimia to silence them. No – he needed to rest; he was on the brink of keeling over; he was sweating and dizzy. He forced his feet to shuffle across the house towards his room. Suddenly, he encountered pecan pie and leftover chicken in the kitchen – just one more time to silence his thoughts. Please, just one last time.

"_Bulimia, please save me from bulimia,"_ it sneered.

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End Note: I really hesitated to post this; it hurts.


End file.
